


Desire Dividing Me

by Mackem



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Canon Compliant, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Feelings, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hair Kink, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Canon, Praise Kink, Sharing Body Heat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 21:48:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19981042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mackem/pseuds/Mackem
Summary: “Well, nevertheless – I believe I’ve noticed something about you,” he goes on, remembering the purpose of his conversation. He reaches out to run a hand through Crowley’s hair, burying his fingers in his soft, messy strands and ruffling them further. Crowleyshudders, and Aziraphale feels a satisfied smile creep onto his face. “I believe you’ve been quite unjustly starved of physical affection, my dear, because nothing makes you relax quite like being touched.”Crowley’s face screws up, but his expression seems closer to thoughtful than derisive. To prove his point, Aziraphale slides his hand through his hair, making sure to tug ever so slightly, and Crowley practically melts with the contact. The tension in his shoulders drops for a moment, and he lets out a soft groan as his eyes close.“You see?” Aziraphale murmurs, leaning into Crowley’s space to lock eyes with him. He offers a teasing, self-satisfied smile, and adds, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say the effect is nothing short of miraculous.”





	Desire Dividing Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dairyme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dairyme/gifts).



> This was meant to be 5000 words of something completely different, but it got out of hand. This is for my lovely, wonderful friend [dairyme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dairyme/pseuds/dairyme), who is always reliably willing to destroy me with perfect character musings on Crowley and Aziraphale, so I am only too happy to return the favour. She also beta'd this and made it much more than it was. Any mistakes which remain are my own.
> 
> The rating is purely for a couple of swears here and there. I've never had the pleasure of visiting Yeovil, so any glaring inaccuracies regarding it are down to my lack of experience. A quick google tells me there was a market there, but that it has closed down. Alas!
> 
> The title comes from Jesus Was A Cross Maker by Judee Sill.

Spending time relaxing together feels like an indulgence.

Perhaps this shouldn’t be a surprise, after everything the two of them have been through together. Nevertheless, Aziraphale finds himself pleasantly delighted by the mundane realities of being in a relationship.

Which is not to say that he finds being Crowley’s partner dull. On the contrary, the two of them have been many things over the course of their association – friends, partners in deceit against their respective sides, even enemies, supposedly, though mostly that seemed to boil down to the other being a familiar face to bicker with – but what they have never been is _bored_.

Humanity has always provided a myriad of distractions, more than enough to keep the two of them diverted, but beyond that, he and Crowley have always found each other more than entertaining enough to ensure neither grow restless in their friendship.

Still, Aziraphale is surprised to discover he likes the everyday realities of being somebody’s partner.

He is new to romantic relationships, obviously, what with the six thousand years of slowly blooming friendship-turned-love mixed with the heady dose of near-constant anxiety that came with it, so when he and Crowley finally step past years of denial and torment to open their hearts to one another, he does so with no idea of what awaits them.

But while Aziraphale may not so much have kissed anybody prior to Crowley, he _has_ done an awful lot of reading in his time.

If asked, he would declare to have no particular interest in the romance genre. He would claim to prefer stirring tales of dramatic action and heroic battles, of treasure hunting and soul searching and philosophising, and only if pressed might possibly concede that a hint of romance in amongst it all does serve to heighten the tragedy or triumph of the work when the climax is eventually reached.

But with humanity fixating repeatedly on the topic, Aziraphale has actually read thousands of novels about romance, and he cannot help but admit that he may have absorbed certain ideas about love from them.

From an outside perspective, being in love seems to involve long periods of agonising about whether or not the feelings are reciprocated, which he and Crowley certainly seem to have covered over the last six thousand years. This is then followed by huge, desperate displays of passion to reveal one's feelings.

He and Crowley helped to save the world together; as a gesture, it’s difficult to top.

And after that… then what?

Most books seem to end at the point at which the lovers involved reveal their feelings and unite, and those which continue after that rarely seem to allow their characters the blissful happy-ever-after that they crave.

Thanks to Agnes Nutter and her final helping hand, the two of them seem to have dodged the tragic end Heaven and Hell sought to give their story, so with that out of the way, Aziraphale finds himself clueless about what their future will hold.

Clueless, but terribly excited.

After thousands of years of sneaking around their respective sides and agonising about being discovered, he is pleasantly surprised to find that just spending time doing everyday things with Crowley is his favourite part of being in a relationship.

He can only assume that Crowley feels the same way.

The two of them have not spoken about it directly, but Aziraphale has spent thousands of years watching Crowley. By now, he finds it is second nature to do so; to observe him, and to catalogue his reactions, and to gauge his moods using everything from the most theatrical of gestures to the smallest quirk of an eyebrow. Crowley, he knows, has always presented a deliberately distant affect, hiding his effusive emotions behind a carefully cultivated smokescreen. Everything from the fashion he drapes himself in, to his ever-present sunglasses, and even his closed-off posture, all hands-shoved-in-pockets and hunched shoulders, add up to keep him deliberately separate from the rest of the Earth.

Aziraphale has long since been able to see past all of it. It is only more recently, relatively speaking, that he has realised Crowley has always allowed him to do so. His mask has always dropped around the angel.

So Aziraphale has enjoyed seeing Crowley’s reactions to their new relationship. He has delighted in the way Crowley’s lips curve into a smile whenever Aziraphale calls around to his flat unexpectedly, as though he is seeing the angel for the first time all over again. He has relished the moments where Crowley will suddenly pull him into an embrace, his arms all but clinging to him as he buries his nose in his hair to breathe him in. He has revelled in the way Crowley always makes sure to walk him into the bookshop after a day spent together, something within him melting at the show of chivalry as Crowley glares around the shop to ensure Aziraphale is safely ensconced within it before making any kind of move to head to his own flat.

His favourite thing to do is to watch Crowley whenever the demon is unaware of it: making himself comfortable on Crowley’s ultra-modern couch and peering at him from behind a book as Crowley stalks about and hisses terrible threats at his plants whilst brandishing a mister at them. While this does mean Aziraphale has witnessed a few incidents he would rather not recall – should he ever take up the habit of sleeping, he is certain he will have nightmares about the fate of one terrified, drooping succulent – it also allows him to see Crowley truly in his element.

It is completely mundane, and it is marvellous.

Oh, it doesn’t have the same sense of spectacle as, say, watching an original Shakespeare performance together, and it certainly doesn’t have the same lavish feel as dining at The Ritz, but Aziraphale finds that simply being able to spend a prolonged amount of time together without having to worry about being discovered feels just as wonderful.

In the weeks since the Apocalypse was averted, in fact, Aziraphale has been rather delighted to discover that a great number of things feel much more exciting merely by doing them in Crowley’s company.

One grey morning, for example, Aziraphale finds that visiting a sweet little farmer’s market in a sleepy town in the West Country is much improved by doing so with a demon in tow.

He has been meaning to go for quite some time. It’s just a local market, held once a month in a town in Somerset, but one of Aziraphale’s regular traders recommends he visit it whenever they speak, and the angel has been swayed by promises of “the best fudge this side of Cornwall”. 

But he is also loathe to leave the shop unattended for too long, and dreads the thought of piling onto a train or bus for hours at a time in the span of a single day, so has put off seeking out the market despite the encouragement of his colleague.

Until now.

When, a month or so after Armageddon is avoided, Aziraphale receives another email from the trader with the promise of a lead on a copy of _Tamerlane and Other Poems_ alongside a cheerful reminder that the market is on tomorrow and that their cheese selection is also nothing to be sniffed at, he cannot help but sit up in excitement. He may not have the means to ferry himself there, but Crowley has always been terribly obliging, in his own way. Aziraphale is certain that it won’t be too difficult to persuade him to take a journey into Somerset for the day.

So, with the sky an unseasonal shade of grey and drizzle permeating the dawn air, Aziraphale leaves the shop and makes his way to Crowley’s apartment, humming happily the whole way. It gets him some grim looks from the few people who shuffle onto the very early bus with him, but he merely gives them a beatific smile in response, and does his best to ignore their muttering.

Crowley’s apartment is locked, but that does nothing to stop Aziraphale walking in. He moves past the plants, biting his lip lest he try to soothe them – best not to upset Crowley when he’s about to ask a favour of him, after all – and spares the demon’s ostentatious throne his usual scornful glance as he approaches the bedroom.

He shivers as he pushes the door open. Crowley, in his desire to be on the cutting edge of modern design, has furnished his apartment in slick marble and glass, which may look very stylish if one’s tastes run that way, but has left the place on the chilly side with the rain pattering against the windows.

Crowley does not sleep every night, Aziraphale knows, but he is not surprised to find him huddled in bed; there are several things guaranteed to drive him to his bed, and bad weather is among them. He finds Crowley completely bundled up in a duvet, ensuring that not even a sliver of skin is forced to have direct contact with the grim English climate.

Aziraphale cannot help but smile fondly at the sight of the cocoon of covers. He knows Crowley well enough to be aware that his request for transportation to a remote town very early on an inclement Sunday morning is more likely to be heeded under certain conditions, so rather than prod blindly at the duvet, he merely perches on the side of the mattress, and waits.

It takes only a few minutes. The duvet begins to shift, inching closer and closer to Aziraphale like a cloud drifting on the breeze, until eventually a ruffled shock of red hair emerges from beneath it, and butts against the angel’s thigh. Aziraphale smiles triumphantly to himself, and strokes his hand over the messy strands.

The duvet shudders. Aziraphale chuckles to himself. Crowley, he has learned over the past few weeks, has a particular weakness when it comes to his hair being played with, and the angel is very happy to indulge him. Especially when he is shamelessly trying to butter him up.

Aziraphale tenderly guides the duvet down to reveal Crowley’s face, his expression still slack with sleep. He leans down to press a kiss to his temple, and smoothes his hair off his forehead as he stirs.

One yellow eye cracks open to barely more than a slit. Aziraphale offers him a smile. “Good morning, Crowley.”

Crowley groans, shifting in place and drawing the duvet closer around him as he balls himself up more tightly, before mumbling, “Time’s it?”

Aziraphale’s smile takes on a sheepish edge, and he strokes apologetically over Crowley’s hair. “Ah. Um. Early, I’m afraid. Just past sunrise.”

“Aziraphale!” moans Crowley, his eyes screwing up in distaste. “I only dropped off a few hours ago!”

“Well, you know, you don’t actually _need_ to sleep,” Aziraphale says with a small frown, which he hurriedly hides as Crowley opens his eyes to glare sullenly at him. He softens his manner, and ruffles his hands through his hair as he says diplomatically, “but I know you like to, of course, and that it’s important to you. I’m sorry, my dear. I don’t mean to be rude.”

“Rude’s a word for it, yeah! You don’t see me interrupting you in the middle of your desserts, even though you don’t _need_ them,” the demon grumbles, but his scowl melts away as he pushes shamelessly into Aziraphale’s hand. The angel suspects Crowley does not even realise what he is doing; as sweet as Aziraphale finds it, they have not discussed Crowley’s love of his hair being played with. Crowley settles in place after a moment, muttering, “Whatcha want?”

“I was hoping to ask a favour of you,” Aziraphale admits, and cannot help but issue an awkward laugh as Crowley’s eyes open to stare at him incredulously. “Yes, I must admit I had pictured it going better than this.”

“Comin’ over here, waking me up, being rude at me, I don’t know,” Crowley mutters, but there’s an amused curl to his lips. “Who d’you think you are?”

“Well. Your partner?” Aziraphale suggests, and smiles when Crowley’s show of outrage melts into a broad grin. He suspects neither of them will ever tire of hearing the words said aloud. He traces his finger over the shell of Crowley’s ear and murmurs, “I really am sorry, dear boy. I got somewhat carried away when an idea struck me, and hurried over here without thinking. I didn’t even consider what time it was until you asked.”

Crowley’s arms snake out of the covers to wrap tightly around Aziraphale’s middle, and he pulls himself closer to rest his head on the angel’s thigh. He peers up at Aziraphale with a slight frown tugging between his eyebrows, suddenly tense against him. “You came here on your own?” he asks, his voice deliberately light.

Aziraphale gives him a bemused look in response. “Well, yes. Who would I have come with?”

“Nobody bothered you?” Crowley asks, and Aziraphale’s bewilderment deepens.

“No? Well, hardly. Some people failed to appreciate my good cheer, but I wouldn’t say they bothered me.”

“Some people? Humans?” presses Crowley, and there is a quiet urgency to his tone.

“Of course humans! Whatever do you mean, Crowley? Why do you ask?” Aziraphale asks, skirting around exasperation, but Crowley’s frown flashes into something like relief before he settles on a wicked grin.

“Wait, let me picture this properly – you were on the first bus of the day, probably humming, is that right?” he asks, and cackles as Aziraphale nods. “Oh, angel! Imagine being out all night, getting onto the first bus that appears, hangover battering at your skull as you bounce along trying to get home without spewing, and then somebody has the gall to look cheerful and hum at you! No wonder they _failed to appreciate_ you!”

“There’s no law against being cheerful,” Aziraphale sniffs. “Regardless of the time of day. Crowley, what do you mean by asking - ”

“ – Never mind all that. I’m half-asleep. I’m not thinking right yet,” Crowley claims quickly, and squints up at Aziraphale. “Come on, then, what’s this idea that’s worth waking me up so early?”

Aziraphale brightens. “Well,” he begins, and starts toying with the short hairs around Crowley’s ear, warmth settling in his chest as Crowley sighs happily. “A chap who occasionally hunts out books for me has reminded me about a market that is apparently something of a hidden gem. I’ve wanted to go for such a long time now, and I realised it’s on today, and I thought perhaps…” He trails off with a hopeful smile as Crowley groans against his thigh, his face screwing up in disbelief.

“You what?” he asks, with a hopeless incredulity behind his words. “A market? What kind of market? Books?”

“No, nothing like that. A farmer’s market!” Aziraphale explains, excitement spilling from him. “I’m told that it’s marvellous. It has all kinds of award-winning produce! Bread, and cheese, and preserves…” He trails off as Crowley lets out another groan, and wriggles insistently until Aziraphale finds himself lying on his back with the demon partially emerging from his duvet to sprawl atop him. His head tucks beneath Aziraphale’s chin as naturally as though it belongs there.

“Stop talking about jam as though it’ll tempt me,” Crowley mutters, his eyes screwed shut and his voice muffled as he speaks against Aziraphale’s chest. “What kind of demon would I be if my head was turned by bloody jam?”

“Well, what kind of demon are you anyway?” Aziraphale asks reasonably, and strokes his hand soothingly over Crowley’s back as he tenses suddenly with a startled intake of breath. “Oh, you know what I mean. I don’t mean to insult you. Quite the contrary! You have such a good heart, my dear. It’s just that you’ve already gone against the legions of Hell for thousands of years, what with all the blessings you carried out for me, and all the miracles you used to keep me safe. Not to mention conspiring to prevent Armageddon, and lying about losing the Antichrist.”

“Right,” Crowley says tightly after a long pause. His fingers twine tightly in Aziraphale’s shirt, white-knuckled and trembling slightly in the cool air of the bedroom. “My many rebellions against Hell, yeah. Did you have a point? Or are you just rehashing my crimes for fun?”

“Well. It’s just after all you’ve done, you’re not exactly affiliated any more, are you?” Aziraphale says. “I hardly think that a little bit of jam is going to get you any worse of a punishment than you’ve already earned. Besides,” he adds, straightening Crowley’s rumpled undershirt with a prim little tug, “it’s not just jam. There’s marmalade, too.”

Crowley huffs a short laugh into his shirt. “Oh, _well_ , yeah, if there’s marmalade too then that’s a different matter, isn’t it?”

“Very good marmalade, by all accounts,” Aziraphale adds brightly. “And their website mentioned entertainment is laid on! I’m sure it would be a very jolly way to spend a morning.”

Crowley grumbles wordlessly, before he turns his head to meet Aziraphale’s gaze. “Where is this market?”

Aziraphale’s heart lifts in excitement. “Yeovil, in Somerset.”

“And it’s…” Crowley’s face screws up as he seems to struggle with how to end his thought. “Public?”

Aziraphale gives him a confused look in return. “Yes? It’s not… we don’t require an invitation, Crowley.”

“That’s not what I mean. It’s… it’s out in the open? Yeovil, where’s that?” he asks, frowning as he thinks. “Hidden away, is it? Hard to find? Lots of ways in and out?”

“It’s a town centre, Crowley, not a fortress,” Aziraphale splutters in open amusement, and Crowley presses his face against Aziraphale’s chest. When he emerges, he’s wearing a chagrined expression, and smiles sheepishly at Aziraphale.

“Yeah. Ignore me. Half-awake, like I said.”

“What are you thinking?” Aziraphale asks, looking Crowley over in growing confusion.

The demon shrugs, and presses a kiss to Aziraphale’s neck. “Just thinking about traffic,” he says lightly. “What’s the best route there, that sort of thing.”

Aziraphale beams down at him. “Then do you mean...?” he asks, breaking off only when a particularly blustery gust of wind peppers the windows with rain. Crowley groans against Aziraphale’s throat.

“English summertime,” he mutters. “Always dependably awful. It’s freezing, angel!”

“I know, dear boy,” Aziraphale says, with another soothing stroke of Crowley’s ruffled hair. “Perhaps it won’t be so bad once we leave London?”

Crowley merely grumbles noncommittally.

Aziraphale strikes around for another way to persuade him. One of the many stories he has read over the years springs into his mind, and he beams hopefully as inspiration strikes. “Well, how about this: if you’ll been so kind as to spoil me by taking me to this market, then I’ll gladly indulge in one of your interests in return, if you’d like?”

Crowley lifts his head and arches a brow at him, his reluctance melting into amusement. “Oh yeah? How fair of you. So what interests are these, then? How shall we _indulge_ together?” he drawls, grinning wickedly along the length of Aziraphale’s body.

Aziraphale flaps a hand aimlessly towards the demon, teasing a chuckle from him. “Really, dear boy, you are too much.” His brows draw together for a moment, before an idea hits him. “Oh! How about Kew Gardens? Wouldn’t you like to visit?”

“Yeah?” Crowley’s eyebrows rise, and he blinks in surprise from his position on Aziraphale’s chest. “You’d come with me?”

“In exchange for you accompanying me here, certainly,” Aziraphale smiles. “If you’d like.”

“I would definitely like,” Crowley says, before cocking an eyebrow quizzically. “Are you sure, though? It’s not like gardens are your thing any more. You’ve already done that whole scene. Twice over, now.”

“Quite. I was hardly a resounding success,” Aziraphale sighs, before smiling shyly at Crowley. “But I know you love it, so if you’d like to take me there…?”

“I’d love to,” grins Crowley in return, and he really does look pleased.

Aziraphale’s smile turns up a notch. “Then you’re willing to bring me to the market? Please?” he murmurs, and leans closer to press a kiss against Crowley’s forehead as one final temptation.

Crowley sighs. He glances towards the windows, stares mournfully at the heavy, grey sky and the rain pattering off the glass, and groans theatrically. “You never play fair, angel,” he scowls, and surges up the bed to plant a firm kiss against Aziraphale’s lips. “Of course I’ll take you to your bloody market. Honestly, your offer is very much appreciated, but you know as well as I do that I’d have done it even without it,” he adds, before freezing in place, his eyes wide as he apparently replays his words.

Aziraphale beams happily in return. “You’re very sweet, Crowley,” he assures him.

Crowley releases a strangled laugh. “Don’t say that. Of course I’m not!” He scrambles back from Aziraphale, reaching over to the bedside table to retrieve his sunglasses and shove them hurriedly onto his face. “I could’ve just said yes right away, but I made you wait, didn’t I? Made you offer me something? I wouldn’t have done that if I was _sweet_.”

“Yes, well, you shan’t change my mind so easily,” Aziraphale smiles fondly. He sits up and reaches out to squeeze Crowley’s shoulder, surprised by the tension he finds. He slides his hand into Crowley’s hair to give it a quick scruff, and is gratified to see his shoulders drop a little. “We’re settled, then? You bring me to the market, and I’ll go with you to Kew Gardens?” 

The demon nods silently, and Aziraphale beams at him. “Then it’s a date, as they say! I’m sure I’ll enjoy seeing you in your element. It would be rather nice to try and understand what you like about horticulture.”

Crowley’s brows draw together. “Oh, no, you won’t get all worked up about my methods, will you, angel?”

Aziraphale shakes his head primly. “No, I won’t say anything about your…ways. It’s hardly as though I could deny that you get results,” he admits, before grimacing as a distressing image swims to the forefront of his memory. “Though I confess that I keep thinking about that sweet little succulent you…well. That was rather ghastly of you. I’m sure it didn’t deserve that.”

Crowley growls. “Bollocks to that! Don’t give it your sympathy, it knows what it did!”

“I’m sure it did. I’m also sure it doesn’t know much of anything at all, any more,” Aziraphale sighs, before forcing himself to brighten up. “Still, it is lovely to see you enjoying yourself so much. Now, do you think you could get ready, please, my dear? It’s quite a drive.”

“Somerset,” Crowley mutters, his tone vaguely scathing. “You couldn’t find a closer one?”

“Well, I’m sure there are closer markets, but I want the fudge from _this_ one,” Aziraphale protests.

Crowley pulls a facetious expression and forces himself out of bed. He shivers as soon as his bare feet hit the cool marble floor, and wraps his arms around his body as he immediately begins to hop from foot to foot towards his wardrobe. “It’s _July_!” he whines whilst glowering at the drizzly weather on display through the windows, and Aziraphale does a poor job of stifling his smile.

It only grows wider as Crowley makes a spectacle of himself by trying to throw his clothes on as quickly as possible. The demon is normally so languid, his form moving with a grace Aziraphale has often envied, but something seems to have robbed him of it.

Aziraphale can only assume that the cool air must be the culprit. His fingers, normally so clever, are surprisingly jittery, and while his trousers don’t put up too much of a fight, the sight of a half-dressed Crowley skipping from foot to foot whilst swearing at his own stubbornly unfastened shirt tickles the angel. Crowley’s vicious answering scowl has him spluttering apologies, but it melts away when Aziraphale moves into his space to fasten the buttons on his shirt for him.

When Aziraphale kisses him Crowley presses even closer, enveloping him in a tight embrace. The shivers going through his slender form cease, and he sighs as he tucks his chin against Aziraphale’s shoulder.

They stand together for a while, their arms held comfortably around each other, until Aziraphale shifts awkwardly, aware of the passage of time. “Are you warm enough for us to get a move on now?” he asks, keeping his tone deliberately light.

Crowley turns his face stubbornly into Aziraphale’s throat, and his lips move against Aziraphale’s skin when he speaks. “Hmm? Warm?”

“Only I really would like to be there when the market opens, you see,” Aziraphale presses on, with an apologetic stroke to Crowley’s hair that has the demon moaning softly. He drapes himself even further over the angel, suddenly all but boneless in his arms as Aziraphale rubs gently at his scalp. “And that’s only a couple of hours from now, and it really is quite a drive…”

Crowley remains silent for a moment, before he presses a soft kiss to Aziraphale’s throat and disentangles their limbs. “S’pose I’ll just have to make sure the Bentley makes good time, then, ey?” he says easily, and practically basks in Aziraphale’s answering beam.

He finishes dressing, and leads Aziraphale down to the Bentley. Crowley sends them speeding out of London with his usual casual disregard of the traffic laws, seemingly as laid back as ever as he sprawls in his seat, but after a short while, the shivering in his limbs resumes. 

Aziraphale tuts worriedly when he realises Crowley is trembling in the chilly air of the car. He turns the knob for the heater up to its maximum, and reaches out to settle his hand apologetically on Crowley’s slim thigh as they drive. Before too long, his shivers subside, and Aziraphale gives his leg an encouraging squeeze.

His other hand remains clinging to the handle in the Bentley’s door, because driving with Crowley is even more trying when he has a time limit working against him. Aziraphale is quite surprised that the desperate squeezing of his fingers has not left marks in the handle when they pull up at their destination a couple of hours later.

Crowley snaps his fingers as they pull into the car park, and a driver who was about to claim the last space is astonished to find their car suddenly taking it upon itself to reverse away at an alarming speed.

Aziraphale all but bounces out of the car, humming happily to himself, and approaches the market with Crowley at his heels, glaring mulishly at the drizzly sky as though daring the rain to hit him.

Aziraphale stands at the market’s entrance and bounces happily on the balls of his feet as he takes it in. The town is small, and picturesque, and he cannot help but admire its deliberately olde worlde décor as the rain patters on the shining cobbles. A roped-off square in the centre of the market is carpeted with fake grass in a way which strongly suggests the promised entertainment will take place despite the weather. Pigeons bicker in soothing coos atop a statue of a soldier astride a rearing horse, and a myriad of delicious scents fill his nose: frying dough, and warm bread, and the tangy smack of vinegar promising the tantalising possibility of chips.

Crowley, meanwhile, stalks past him and pushes to the front of the queue at a stall selling hot drinks. Seemingly to their own astonishment, the entire queue shuffles backwards to make room for him, and Crowley grins sardonically in the face of their outraged muttering.

He returns to Aziraphale clutching a large cup of coffee like a lifeline. He stands a few feet away from Aziraphale and wastes no time in taking an enormous gulp of it, unconcerned by the steaming heat it radiates, then buries his nose in the cup to inhale deeply as he swallows, as though hoping to absorb extra caffeine from its scent. 

With his free hand he flicks up the collar of his jacket and huddles down into it as though donning armour, his shoulders drawing up and his neck all but disappearing into the material as he hunches himself up against the drizzle.

“Well,” he sighs eventually, wrapping both hands around the cup. He unleashes a slow, baleful glare at the place, as though memorising their surroundings, then gives Aziraphale a wan smile. “Lay on, Macduff, and all that.”

Aziraphale hesitates as he watches Crowley, feeling a sudden stab of remorse for dragging him out of bed. The demon cuts a rather pathetic figure in the grey morning light as he attempts to hide in his own jacket, with tense shoulders and a grim set to his lips as his eyes dart around the town square as if he is seeking a way out. He shifts restlessly in place a few feet from Aziraphale, his weight moving constantly from foot to foot, as though keeping himself ready to flee at any moment.

Aziraphale’s heart clenches as a crowd of people mills past them. “Crowley,” he asks softly, “are you all right?”

Crowley gives him a suspicious look, before he waves a hand dismissively. “Me? I’m fine.” Aziraphale’s doubt must show on his face, as Crowley pauses for a moment before plastering on a grin. “I’m _fine_! Why wouldn’t I be?” He starts wandering around Aziraphale in a fidgety orbit, his gaze swivelling across the crowd like an owl seeking prey.

“It’s just that you seem…unenthused,” Aziraphale suggests.

Crowley splutters melodramatically at him. “What do you mean? What’s not to be enthused about!” he says. “There’s all these food stalls, and I’m sure they’re not _that_ over-priced, even though I didn’t get much change out of a tenner for this coffee, and…and there’s that statue, look, that’s a _great_ statue! And – oh, bloody hell, is that some Morris dancers setting up?” he says, his bright tone vanishing as his dismay bleeds through.

“Oh, good lord, I believe they are,” Aziraphale says tightly, his own face twisting into a grimace at the ominous sight of the white-clad dancers approaching the square of faux-grass. Still, after a moment of consternation, his attention swings back to Crowley. “I have an idea,” he says lightly, and gives Crowley an encouraging smile. “Why don’t you wait in the car for a while?”

Crowley draws back as though slapped. “You what?”

“Please don’t worry, I really won’t take offence,” Aziraphale adds brightly, as Crowley gapes at him. “It’ll be lovely and warm in there by now, you’d be much more comfortable than out here. Perhaps you could nap, or listen to some music? And I’ll just return to you when I’m ready. Honestly, my dear, I’m certain I can manage on my own for a while. I hardly need you to be with me for this!”

He expects Crowley to smile. He expects him to sigh in relief, and to thank him, and saunter off. Instead, Crowley gives him an astonished look, and his lips twist uncertainly. “What do you mean?” he asks, and Aziraphale is horrified to hear the undercurrent of hurt to his voice. “You don’t want me - you would rather be alone?”

Aziraphale’s stomach plunges. “No, dear boy, that isn’t it at all!” he assures him hurriedly. He tries for a reassuring grin that falters as Crowley stands stock still, hunched and tense, as the sky rumbles ominously above them. “It’s just that it - it’s hardly ideal weather, and, and you’re cold, aren’t you?”

“Cold?” Crowley echoes, apparently bewildered, and Aziraphale watches his fingers tighten to the point of turning white on the coffee cup as he shifts restlessly.

“Yes, cold. I know you are, I can tell, and I’m so sorry, my dear. I really should have considered that when I saw the weather. Of course _you’d_ be cold, what with the whole serpent…aspect.” He sucks in a breath as Crowley’s expression flattens.

“Serpent. That’s me. Right. Cold,” Crowley mutters, before nodding sharply. His twitchy movement abruptly stills as though Crowley has just become aware of it, and he flashes a tight grin at him. “Yeah, I’m just cold, Aziraphale, that’s all. It’s not the end of the world.”

“But it’s not good for you, is it?” Aziraphale charges on apologetically. “I know that, really I do, but I asked regardless, and – and you’re always so wonderful to listen to what I want, my dear, even when I _know_ this isn’t your kind of thing, is it, not _really_?” he admits, ducking his eyes as Crowley watches him closely. He tugs awkwardly at his sleeves as his stomach churns unhappily. “I just thought it would be nice to come and, and to have you here with me, but I don’t want to see you suffer, Crowley. Honestly, it was lovely of you to drive me, but you don’t have to endure this just for me. I really didn’t mean to offend you, or, or to dismiss you, it’s just that I’m sure you’d be much happier in the Bentley than here with me,” he suggests meekly, scrambling to undo whatever hurt he has inflicted.

After a long moment of silence, Crowley sniffs. “You’re right. This is definitely not my kind of thing,” he says, glancing around himself as the rain drizzles down onto the brightly-coloured awnings of stalls full of produce. Aziraphale follows his gaze and takes in the milling crowd, in which no doubt otherwise very pleasant people keen to support their local farmers nevertheless viciously deploy their elbows to shove their way to the front of stalls, and the wail of an occasional bawling child pierces the air. He winces as Crowley scowls, but to his surprise, the demon’s expression clears when his eyes return to Aziraphale. Crowley produces a slightly beleaguered smile, and shrugs tense shoulders. “It’s your thing though, innit?”

“Well…yes, I’m afraid so,” Aziraphale admits sheepishly.

Crowley nods sharply. “Then here I am,” he says, as though it is as simple as that.

Aziraphale watches him in open surprise, bathed in rain and astonishment in equal measure,as Crowley remains solidly by his side despite everything; despite the relentless rain, and the gaggle of chattering people, and the easy escape he has been offered.

He wonders, briefly, stupidly, if Crowley has been reading romance novels too, and then dismisses it out of hand. The demon has never been one for books. He is just, it seems, a romantic at heart. 

Perhaps Aziraphalel should not seek inspiration from the stories he loves so much. Perhaps he need not look further than the way Crowley has treated him for the past few thousand years to get an idea of how relationships should work. 

A slow beam spreads across Aziraphale’s face, and he steps into Crowley’s space to press a light kiss to his lips. “Thank you,” he murmurs as Crowley blinks in surprise. “You’re very good to me, my dear.”

Crowley’s expression of surprise briefly flits into something closer to adoration, and a warm smile blooms on his face as his cheeks flush. But it lasts barely a second before his eyes widen and he clears his throat, stepping away from Aziraphale to glance wildly around them. Aziraphale chuckles softly to himself, amused at the thought that Crowley might panic about somebody realising his reaction to being praised. It really is adorable.

“Me? Good? Rubbish. You call driving you somewhere being good to you? You need to raise your standards, angel,” Crowley declares flatly, and his gaze is electric behind his sunglasses as it sweeps over the town centre. He spins on the spot as he looks the crowd over, eyes narrowing when they fixate on an individual, before he dismisses them and moves on to his next target.

Aziraphale follows his gaze curiously. “Are you looking for somebody?”

When Crowley does not answer, Aziraphale places his hand on Crowley’s arm to squeeze it worriedly. Only then does Crowley halt. He turns to face Aziraphale, hands reaching out to cling to his shoulders as though assuring himself that Aziraphale is really there, and then lets out a deep breath.

“No,” he says shortly. Aziraphale arches an eyebrow at him, and Crowley summons up a soft smile. “No, angel, sorry. Just thought…well. It’s not important.”

“Just thought?” Aziraphale echoes, and Crowley shrugs, his eyes again scanning the crowd.

“Lots of people here, hey?” he murmurs distractedly. “Big crowd.”

“Well, it is a _very_ popular market,” Aziraphale offers, and squeezes Crowley’s arm. “I’ve heard lots of the stallholders have won very prestigious awards. I’m not surprised people flock here.”

That seems to capture Crowley’s attention. He returns his gaze to Aziraphale, and gives him a bemused look as he indicates their surroundings with a wave of his hands. “Prestigious?”

Aziraphale hesitates, looking around the town centre at Crowley’s pointed tone, before adding, “Well, in the right circles, I’m sure. No wonder there’s a large crowd. Look, are you certain you’re all right, Crowley? You seem…” he hesitates. “Distracted?”

Crowley shrugs tightly, and shoves his hands into his pockets. “I’m cold, remember?” he says. “Prob’ly it’s messing with my mind a bit. Harder to think, when the blood’s not flowing properly. And I’m tired, too, there’s that.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” Aziraphale murmurs, and squeezes his arm again. “It’s very nice of you to bring me here, my dear. It’s more than I deserve. You really are a treasure,” he adds, purely to see Crowley flush, which he does so gloriously.

He covers it up by glaring incredulously at Aziraphale from behind his glasses. “You what? Would you listen to the kind of rot you’re talking? Angel, you deserve much better than a drenched town centre at the wrong end of a Sunday morning! Still, if it’s what you want…”

“I want your company,” Aziraphale says with a grin, before he cocks his head and sheepishly adds, “well, and also some fudge. I’ve heard somebody here does marvellous things with fudge, we’ll have to try some. But I do want you, too.”

“Oh yeah?” Crowley laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m held that highly in your esteem? I’m up there with fudge?”

“Oh, don’t make fun of my interests, Crowley,” Aziraphale grumbles, hiding his smile as best he can while Crowley’s grin only grows.

“Interests? Fudge? I’m not sure it counts as a _hobby_!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I mean markets,” Aziraphale corrects. “They’re simply darling. But I know you don’t agree, and I don’t expect to change your mind.” He flashes a bright smile at Crowley as an idea strikes. Perhaps the Bentley is not required to warm Crowley up; perhaps he can do so himself. “Still, if you really are willing to accompany me instead of staying warm in the Bentley, perhaps you’d escort me like a gentleman?” he says, and holds his elbow out.

Crowley rolls his eyes, but tucks his arm through Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale pats his hand gently, the warmth of his own flesh a stark contrast against Crowley’s icy fingers, and he cannot help but smile when Crowley shivers instinctively at his touch. The tension in his shoulders seems to loosen, and the tight set to his spine relaxes. 

For the first time since they stepped into the town centre, Crowley’s restless shifting ceases, and he plasters himself against the angel with an almost inaudible sigh of relief.

Aziraphale smiles in satisfaction, and clicks his fingers. An umbrella appears in his free hand, wide enough to accommodate the two of them providing they remain side-by-side. “Stay close, please?” Aziraphale suggests with a teasing smile, “I wouldn’t like to see you freezing.”

“How kind of you,” Crowley snorts, but he nudges his head fondly against Aziraphale’s in unspoken thanks.

Together, both enjoying themselves all the more for sharing in the other’s company, they promenade leisurely around the market. The crowd parts miraculously around the approach of their umbrella, and no matter how tempting the produce at whatever stall Aziraphale heads for, the line jostling in front of it always seems to lose interest and melt away as they stroll towards it.

While Aziraphale does take an awful lot of pleasure in cooing over various artisanal goods, he finds he equally enjoys the sight of a scowling Crowley making every single bell fly off the troupe of Morris dancers mere seconds into their performance with only an irritable wave of his finger.

“Look, I’m not sure if they’re one of mine, one of yours, or if humans came up with that nonsense on their own,” Crowley mutters defensively against his ear as Aziraphale hides his laughter behind a mouthful of cinder toffee, “but whoever’s responsible, it’s bloody awful, and I did everyone a favour just now, so don’t start, all right? Just don’t.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, my dear,” Aziraphale smiles, and cannot help but chuckle at the sight of the crestfallen dancers chasing their scattered bells across the cobbles. 

The two of them share a bag of chips as they watch the group eventually resume their dance with a good deal less fanfare and enthusiasm, not to mention jingling. 

It really is very satisfying.

It is Crowley who first spots the fudge stall as they wander the market. He takes Aziraphale gently by the chin with cold fingers to turn his eyes towards it. “There you go,” he says, and laughs as Aziraphale immediately swivels on the spot and steers them towards the stall with a skip in his step. Crowley takes the umbrella from him as Aziraphale weaves through the crowd. “Going to indulge in your hobby, then?”

“For the last time, Crowley,” Aziraphale says peevishly, “I didn’t mean it was a hobby!”

“Oh yeah? What is it, then?”

“It’s a treat,” Aziraphale says primly, and turns on a smile as he approaches the stallholder.

It all looks deliciously tempting. Aziraphale’s eyes dance over the stall, taking in each slab of fudge and delighting in the large assortment of flavours. He spends quite a few minutes deliberating about which he would like to buy, before, flustered by the audible muttering of those shuffling in the queue behind him, he asks, “I wonder if it would be possible for you to make up an assortment bag for me? With some of every flavour?”

The stallholder frowns. And then Crowley clicks his fingers, and the man’s expression becomes a rictus smile.

A few minutes later, they walk away from the stall with a large bag clutched in Aziraphale’s hands. “That was wonderful of you, you do spoil me. Thank you,” Aziraphale says softly, and Crowley stiffens by his side for a moment. Aziraphale cannot help but smile to himself as he glances sidelong at the demon, and sees the way his ears are steadily turning pink, and how his fingers are fiddling with the handle of the umbrella.

Eventually, Crowley clears his throat. “Never thought I’d see the day an angel thanks me for miracling a stallholder into behaving,” he says sharply, and his eyes once again begin to look suspiciously around the crowd.

Aziraphale chuckles, and gives him a teasing nudge to the ribs. “It’s quite all right, Crowley. I’m sure nobody is listening in. You could just admit that you like it, you know,” he says knowingly, and Crowley splutters by his side for a long moment.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says pointedly, once he’s collected himself. 

Aziraphale laughs to himself, and is pleased when the apologetic squeeze he gives Crowley’s arm sees his restless energy melt away. 

Crowley cocks his head towards the large paper bag in Aziraphale’s hands. “Anyway. Mind you don’t eat them all at once, okay?”

“I have no intention of doing so,” Aziraphale assures him. “I’m going to save them all until we get home.”

Crowley snorts. “Oh yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Wanna bet?” Crowley asks, and Aziraphale draws himself up.

“Crowley!” he protests, affronted. “I have no plans to try even one until I can sit down with a book tonight!”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Crowley says, waving a hand dismissively. Yellow eyes look sidelong at Aziraphale, and a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “It’s just that I wasn’t born yesterday. I know you, Aziraphale. I’ve seen you with sweets before now.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth to protest, before he sighs, chagrined. He tucks the bag beneath his arm and pats his stomach self-consciously. “Yes, well, I suppose you make a good point,” he allows. “It’s just terribly nice to indulge sometimes, don’t you think?”

Crowley shrugs, and quietly presses a kiss to Aziraphale’s forehead, a gesture so quick as to be over as soon as it begins. He still feels the phantom brush of his lips as Crowley says lightly, “Obviously I generally encourage indulgence, being a demon. But it’ll be all the better for you if you don’t end up wanting to vomit because you ate them all. That’s all.”

Aziraphale gives him a flustered smile, aware that his own cheeks are turning pink. “It’s lovely of you to think of me, Crowley,” he says earnestly. “It’s just so hard to resist sometimes. Don’t you find? I suppose it’s habit, by now.”

The demon’s eyes flicker sidelong towards him again. “Habit?” he echoes. “What is?”

“Well, I spent eleven years aware of the fact that we only had a finite amount of time left, and I wasn’t going to waste a moment of it refusing myself whatever treats I wanted,” Aziraphale admits sheepishly. “And now I find it’s hard to remember that we’re past that. I keep having to remind myself that we survived, and that everything won’t be taken away from us without a moment’s notice. It’s silly of me, isn’t it?”

Crowley shifts uncomfortably. “Silly,” he murmurs. His eyes jerk around the market, taking in every corner of it. After a moment, with Aziraphale’s confused gaze apparently burning into him, he turns his attention back to the angel. His mouth opens, and he seems on the verge of something, as though a confession is on the tip of his tongue, but he hesitates, and the moment passes as his mouth clicks shut.

“Crowley?” asks Aziraphale, concern niggling at him.

Crowley turns a blinding smile on him. “Look,” he says brightly, and points across the other side of the market. “Weren’t you looking out for the cheese person, too?”

“Cheese person?” Aziraphale asks, before he looks across the market and sees a stall packed high with dairy produce. “Oh. Is that what you’ve been looking for?”

“’Course! I knew you were after it. Didn’t you say you were? C’mon, let’s have a look,” Crowley urges, and Aziraphale allows the concern gnawing at his stomach to subside as he catches sight of a particularly enticing wheel of brie.

The two of them leave the market soon after, laden down with a fine selection of cheeses, breads, and preserves, which Crowley helps him to pack into the boot of the Bentley. Aziraphale elects to keep the bag of fudge on his lap for the journey home, claiming not to want to risk individual pieces going missing in the miraculously enlarged space of the boot.

By the time they pull up outside of the bookshop, the fudge is reduced to nothing more than a crinkling pile of empty wrappers and an ominously grumbling stomach.

Aziraphale lets himself out, no less pleased than he ever is when the door swings obligingly open with a wave of Crowley’s hand and they unpack the boot together. “Are you heading off, then?” Aziraphale asks as Crowley helps him deposit their goodies into his pantry. “Back to bed?”

The demon sniffs, before shrugging tightly. “Nah. I thought I might hang around here for a while. If that’s okay, I mean.”

Aziraphale smiles, delight shining from him. “Oh, that would be wonderful!” he says, before clutching his stomach as it groans portentously.

“Yeah, well, I’ve got a bet going with myself about whether or not you’re going to throw up,” Crowley adds conversationally as he smirks. “I _told_ you not to eat them all at once.”

Aziraphale’s petulant pout only makes Crowley laugh, but the nausea passes uneventfully, and the two of them spend the rest of the day together.

He opens the shop for a couple of hours, and gets on with sorting through his accounts for the month whilst Crowley makes himself at home on the shop floor.

Usually, when ensconced in the shop, Crowley makes himself comfortable, draping himself languidly across a chair and entertaining himself by drinking wine and glaring daggers at anybody who dares to intrude, while doing his best to distract Aziraphale from anything that could possibly be construed as work.

Today is different.

Today, Crowley spends his time stalking moodily around the shop, circling the aisles in a complicated route which often seems to double back on itself, periodically watching the door in between glowering at books as though personally offended by them. His narrowed eyes dart around the room, fixating on the smallest of noises until he has catalogued what caused it.

But he returns to Aziraphale’s side periodically, abandoning his route to drape himself over the angel and casually murmur some comment about a book against his ear. 

Aziraphale relishes the teasing brush of Crowley’s lips, and the way his hand curls naturally around the back of Aziraphale’s neck as he leans in close, but he also notices how the jittery tension in Crowley’s limbs melts away with every bit of contact. 

Whenever the demon approaches him, his eyes are moving skittishly, and his limbs are taut with tension, until Aziraphale reaches out to brush a hand over whatever part of Crowley is closest at the time; his hand, his shoulder, his hair. 

Every time, as Aziraphale draws him close and strokes soothingly over his body, the tension suffusing him begins to drain away, and every time, when Crowley pulls away and begins again to wander the shop, the same insidious restlessness slowly overtakes his body anew.

The few customers who dare venture within the shop bear the brunt of his agitation, and find him becoming a second shadow as they browse uneasily. Aziraphale watches as they shoot increasingly worried glances his way as he lurks just behind them, his arms crossed and his nostrils occasionally flaring as he sniffs the air.

Aziraphale spares one particularly unsettled customer a harried look when they slam the door behind them as they flee, and approaches Crowley to ask carefully, “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Crowley says shortly, and gives Aziraphale a triumphant smirk. “Not a thing. They smelled fine.”

“Fine?” Aziraphale asks after a moment. “What do you mean?”

“Human,” Crowley says significantly, and takes off on another circuit around the shop.

Aziraphale goes back to his accounts, but would be the first to admit that he is spending more time watching Crowley than focusing on figures. At least nobody is trying to buy anything in the face of his behaviour.

By the time evening falls and the light begins to fade, Crowley is still showing no sign of leaving, and Aziraphale is glad of it. The idea of Crowley heading home alone when he is so obviously unsettled is awful.

Aziraphale had been so sure that it had been the temperature; the unseasonable weather has definitely left a chill in the air, and it is natural for a cold-blooded creature to be affected by it, surely? But the bookshop is decidedly toasty, and Crowley is still shaking despite it.

Aziraphale spends several hours wracking his brain, wondering precisely how he can convince Crowley to let him help with it when he seems so set on changing the subject whenever Aziraphale asks how he is.

Eventually, he decides to just wait him out, and to offer his help as soon as the opportunity presents itself. After all, making plans has rarely worked for them in the past.

To his relief, when Aziraphale closes the shop, Crowley seems to relax minutely. The demon clicks the lock into place himself, and produces a grim smile of satisfaction when a click of his fingers sets the blinds falling into place, shielding them from the outside world.

The two of them choose a bottle of wine to share and settle themselves comfortably on a large leather couch in the back of Aziraphale’s shop. The couch does not exist until Crowley protests that he wants somewhere comfortable to sit, and creates it with another click of his fingers.

He hovers nonchalantly by it as he waits for Aziraphale to select a book and seat himself, before lying against Aziraphale’s side with one leg on the floor and the other on the cushions. He wriggles until he is sprawled comfortably, then rests his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder.

Aziraphale waits for a long moment, watching as Crowley pulls out his mobile phone, and smiles in relief as the minute trembling in his body begins to slowly fade away with their contact. He leans closer to drop a kiss onto the top of Crowley’s head, still thrilled by how novel it feels, and smiles when Crowley sighs and shifts even closer, lying still and calm against him.

Perhaps further help won’t be required at all. Perhaps this is all Crowley needs.

Aziraphale opens his book – _The Divine Comedy_ ; Crowley levels a particularly dismissive sneer at it when he notices the title – and begins reading. 

The two of them have spent more than enough time together in the last six thousand years to reach a point where silences between them are comfortable. They are so used to each other’s company that long moments of quiet do not bring about discomfort, but relaxation. It is perfectly all right for the two of them to sit together and share a bottle of wine, but not a conversation.

It is hardly as though they lack the ability to fill the silence. Aziraphale is surrounded by potential sources of diversion and, though he offers to recommend a book to Crowley, the demon merely waves his phone at him in a pointed, dismissive gesture. Presumably there is something within it entertaining enough to keep him occupied, though Aziraphale hasn’t the slightest clue what it could be.

He soon loses track of time as he reads, drawn as ever into Dante’s absorbing, if fantastic and wildly incorrect descriptions of the afterlife, while Crowley…well. Aziraphale is not entirely certain what it is that Crowley is doing, but it seems to involve staring at his telephone and jabbing sporadically at the screen, then cursing under his breath and doing so all over again.

They lounge comfortably together for a while, their silence broken only by the occasional rustle of a page or tinkle of glass as the bottle upends itself helpfully to refresh their glasses. Initially, Aziraphale is absorbed in his book, but as time passes, he becomes gradually aware that Crowley’s relaxed sprawl is beginning to deteriorate.

It is subtle, at first. A creak comes from the shop, no doubt a floorboard settling, andCrowley’s head turns quickly towards the noise. Aziraphale, lost in poetry, shushes him wordlessly, and thinks nothing more of it when Crowley slowly returns to his position against his shoulder. But Crowley’s languid slouch has vanished; instead, he lies stiffly against Aziraphale, his muscles bunched and his eyes repeatedly raising from his phone to dart around the room, flitting from the room’s entrance to the door that leads upstairs and fixating on the shadows in the corner.

Before too long, Crowley starts twitching in place, fidgeting against Aziraphale as the movement of his fingers against the device becomes sharper and more vicious. Eventually his leg begins to bounce restlessly against the floor, and he hisses irritably.

The silence collapses in pieces around them when Crowley heaves a sigh and slides his phone back into his pocket. He arches his neck by rolling it on Aziraphale’s shoulder with a wince, as though fighting against stiff muscles.

Aziraphale’s concerns come roaring back all at once. His earlier attempts to help echo in his head, alongside Crowley’s dismissive responses, but he cannot help but try again. “Is everything all right, dear boy?”

Crowley snarls angrily, then he tilts his head to meet Aziraphale’s eyes behind his sunglasses. Earlier his eyes had their usual white rim around their irises, but now Aziraphale blinks in surprise at the solid flash of yellow he sees staring balefully back at him. “Let it be known,” Crowley snaps, “that if I _were_ still at the beck and call of Down Below, I’d have claimed to have invented time-based mobile games.”

“I see,” Aziraphale lies. He offers Crowley a hesitant smile. “And…they’d have liked that, would they?”

Crowley’s frustrated expression softens as Aziraphale speaks. “D’you know what, I take it back. I wouldn’t have bothered taking credit for it, because they’d have reacted exactly the same way as you just did. Luddites, the lot of you!”

He fishes his phone back out of his pocket, swipes his finger along it, and waves the screen before Aziraphale’s face. The angel squints at the message on it; _‘This chest will unlock in 1:57:58! Speed it up with 25 gems! Buy 20 gems for £2.99!’_

“This,” Crowley says emphatically, “is the real face of evil nowadays. Bloody microtransactions!”

“You require… digital gems?” Aziraphale asks, bewildered as he looks from screen to scowling demon.

Crowley sighs, and abruptly chucks his phone to the side. In defiance of the demon’s apparent carelessness, it makes sure to land neatly and uncracked. “No! Nobody requires that, but here comes humanity with it anyway!” The restless thudding of Crowley’s boot against the floor forms a rapid counterpoint to his words as he shifts.

“Ah.” Aziraphale nods, following this with difficulty, then decides to throw caution to the wind. Crowley is clearly uncomfortable, and as frustrating as whatever is happening on his phone no doubt is, he has been jittery all day.

The only thing that has helped, Aziraphale realises, the _only_ thing that has made his agitated trembling recede, has been physical contact.

It is not within Aziraphale to see Crowley suffering without offering aid.

He sets his book carefully to one side, clears his throat, and asks softly, “Then is there something you _do_ require? Can I help with anything? Are you cold again?” he tries helplessly, though by now he is sure that is not the problem.

Crowley rolls his shoulders and shifts uncomfortably on the couch. He opens his mouth, then his eyes dart yet again towards the entrance to the room, and it snaps shut.

He squirms until he is sitting upright, and Aziraphale’s heart sinks as Crowley moves away from him. He writhes along the couch until his body is pressed into the corner opposite Aziraphale, then draws his legs up against his chest and curls his arms defensively around them, as though preparing to protect himself against an attacker. His breathing quickens and he flexes trembling fingers to drag them raggedly through his hair, leaving it uncharacteristically messy.

Eventually, his eyes dart back to Aziraphale, and he pulls a tortured face. “No,” he says abruptly, before sighing and slumping down with his face in his knees.

“No?” Aziraphale turns to sit facing him with slow movements. He is suddenly wary of spooking Crowley; he seems to be teetering on the precipice of fleeing from some phantom threat. “Then what is the problem, my dear? I know something’s wrong,” he says plainly, as Crowley shakes his head. “Perhaps I can help. Please, tell me? ”

“Hell, angel, I don’t _know_!” snaps Crowley defensively.

His frantic vehemence startles Aziraphale into silence. 

Crowley worries with his hair, tugging fitfully at it as his eyes once again dart suspiciously around the room. Eventually, his voice cracking, he asks, “You’d know if we had company, right? You’d be able to tell?”

“Company?” 

“Demons,” spits Crowley. “Or, or angels. Either. Anyone!”

“Oh. Well. Yes, I suppose I would,” Aziraphale says. Crowley is looking at him with a desperation that astonishes him, so he plasters a reassuring smile over his confusion. “Do you suspect there might be somebody here?”

“No. Maybe? I keep feeling – I don’t know,” Crowley says shakily, and Aziraphale’s heart clenches as his hands fist tightly in his hair.

“I’ll – I’ll check, shall I?” he offers.

“Please?”

Aziraphale tries for another calming smile, then dutifully extends his senses outside of his body to encompass the room. He focuses on the shop as a whole, sending his consciousness into every room, every corner, any cranny in which a person could theoretically be hiding.

He feels nothing, save the two of them.

“There’s nobody else here. Nobody but us, I’m sure of it,” he says as he returns to his body. He blinks dizzily for a second, readjusting to being constrained to one form, then frowns as he watches Crowley sag against the couch in relief. “Now will you tell me what the problem is?” he asks gently. “You’ve been upset since you woke up, Crowley. I know it.”

Crowley shakes his head instinctively, but to Aziraphale’s relief, he does begin to speak after a moment. “Time was, hiding stuff from you was easy,” he mutters, levelling an accusatory look at Aziraphale. “’s not fair, you noticing things.”

“I noticed them then, too,” Aziraphale says patiently. “I just pretended otherwise. It was easier that way. Come on, Crowley, be a dear and tell me what’s bothering you? I’ll only worry, otherwise.”

“Be a dear,” Crowley snorts incredulously, as his arms tighten around himself. “I’m a _demon_!”

“I know what you are,” Aziraphale says, his voice gentle.

Crowley moans wordlessly, and drops his head to hide it against his knees. He drags shaking fingers through the wild nest of his hair, then mutters, “You thought I was cold earlier, and I was, yeah. Thanks for helping with that, by the way.”

“It’s never a problem,” Aziraphale says. “Far from it.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t have to put yourself out for me.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes in return. “Come now. Put myself out? How, precisely? By cuddling with you? It’s hardly a chore. In fact,” he admits, his cheeks flushing, “it’s one of my favourite ways to spend time. You’re so responsive, Crowley. It really is lovely to see you relax.”

Crowley’s eyes raise from his knees, and Aziraphale is gratified to see the dusting of pink over the demon’s own cheeks. “Yeah. Well. You fixed that one, but…” He trails off into a miserable noise of frustration. “I went to bed yesterday because…it’s stupid.”

“It’s not,” Aziraphale says softly. “Nothing that could bother you this much is stupid, Crowley. Tell me? Please?”

“Not playing fair again,” Crowley sighs. He shrugs tense shoulders. “Look, every now and then I get in moods like this. I overthink, I get daft worries in my head, and I end up a mess of paranoia, letting stupid stuff eat away at me until it feels like – like every atom of me is irritating every _other_ atom, and all they want to do is fly apart. What the hell can I do about that?” He still squirms in place even as he curls up even more tightly around himself. “Nothing _helps_.”

Aziraphale’s heart goes out to him as Crowley speaks. “What are you worried about? Would you like to talk about it?”

“Nope,” says Crowley without hesitation. He forces a weak smile which drops off his face a second later. “I tried that. It doesn’t work. Just makes me feel worse.”

“Well, all right, then, how else can I help? There must be something, Crowley. We can’t just let you carry on like this.”

The smile that blooms on Crowley’s lips is no less brief than his last effort, but fondness shines from it as Crowley turns his eyes on Aziraphale. After a second, he sighs and shakes his head. “I’m telling you, nothing helps. I just…I need to distract myself, that’s all. Not that I’ve found any way of actually _doing_ that, but, y’know. Look, it’s fine. This never lasts too long. A few days. Maybe a week. And then I’ll be good as new.”

“A week?” Aziraphale asks unhappily. The thought of Crowley carrying on in this miserable state for any time at all is too awful to consider. He reaches out instinctively to press his hand over Crowley’s knee, squeezing the tense flesh beneath. Crowley’s breath catches in surprise, and his gaze skitters away into the depths of the shop rather than meeting Aziraphale’s eyes. A thrum of restless energy radiates from him, wound around him like a cord in need of untangling, and Aziraphale realises he knows exactly what to do.

They have only been in a relationship since they avoided Armageddon a few weeks ago, and perhaps their initial efforts towards physical affection have been tentative and hesitant for the most part, but Aziraphale has dedicated six thousand years to trying to understand Crowley. 

Crowley may have no clue how to help himself, but Aziraphale is certain he can help.

He nods to himself, and gives Crowley a reassuring smile. “I have an idea. Would you be willing to let me try something, my dear?”

Crowley sighs, and Aziraphale can practically see the refusal on the tip of his tongue, but eventually he yields in the face of Aziraphale’s concern. He offers a stiff, helpless shrug. “Honestly, if you have any useful suggestions at all, I’m all ears.”

“Then will you come back to me, please?” Aziraphale asks, and crooks his finger encouragingly at him.

Crowley rolls his eyes despite himself. “I was tempted until you did _that_ ,” he snorts, but unfurls his limbs enough to edge closer on the couch regardless.

He turns sidelong in his seat, and opens his arms to encourage Crowley closer. “Just trust me?”

“You say that like you’re not the only person I trust,” Crowley says lightly.

The words flood to Aziraphale’s chest. He beams, his face scrunching into a fond smile. “That’s very kind of you. Thank you, my dear,” he says, and spins his finger as Crowley moves into his space. “Could you turn around, please?”

Crowley does so, shuffling awkwardly until he is seated with his back to Aziraphale, with one foot on the floor and one hand clinging to the couch cushion so tightly his knuckles turn white. “What’re you doing?” His voice is studiously light, but there is a tremor beneath it. “What’s this idea of yours? I s’pose it _might_ not be one I’ve already tried in the, oh, few thousand years I’ve had this happen.”

“I’m sure you’ve tried a lot. You’re very clever, my dear. But perhaps a fresh pair of eyes is just what you need?” He clears his throat, wondering how to broach this, before deciding he has nothing to gain from dancing around the subject. “Forgive me for prying, but would you allow me to ask a question about your demon chums?” he starts, and has to break off while Crowley goes into an alarming fit of frenetic laughter.

“My demon chums!” he squeaks when he eventually emerges from his hysterics, turning to face Aziraphale with a wild grin on his face. “Oh, angel, I adore you, y’know that?”

“I fail to see what is so funny about that remark,” Aziraphale says, drawing himself up.

“Don’t you? D’you really not?” Crowley asks around his rictus grin. “Which _chums_ are these, then? How about the one that I killed because he was trying to kill me? Or maybe you mean the one that sentenced me to be immersed in holy water? Or maybe one of the thousands of demons that crowded around to watch it all happen?”

“Well. When you put it like that,” Aziraphale sighs, before giving Crowley a beseeching look. “I thought perhaps the later stage of your acquaintance with them represented something of a, a blip in your relationship. I take it that I’m not correct?”

“You’re about as incorrect as it is possible to be,” Crowley grins with a maniacal sheen to his eyes behind his glasses. They dart towards the doors, and into the shadows around the room, before Crowley lowers his voice and mutters, “I was a terrible agent of Hell, angel. They didn’t like me, and I certainly didn’t like them. They really only tolerated me ‘cause of the whole apple business, and because I seemed to be getting results up here. There was no friendliness between us, I promise you that much.”

“Nevertheless,” Aziraphale says firmly, “The point I was hoping to make stands. There’s been no…no physical affection in your life, has there? I don’t mean…oh, not _that_ , dear boy, don’t…” he trails off as Crowley cackles and waggles his eyebrows at him, smirking as Aziraphale shifts in discomfort. “I’m not talking about carnal pleasures, Crowley. I mean simple things. Hugs, that sort of thing.”

Crowley’s salacious grin drops away, and he dismisses Aziraphale’s query with a sharp shake of his head. “Now who would I have got that from?” he asks pointedly. “You know very well _we_ haven’t been in a position to do anything like that until lately, and…well. Even if they were my best buddies, demons are hardly the cuddly sort, Aziraphale.”

“Mm. Not most demons, at least,” Aziraphale says with a teasing little smile, and squeezes Crowley’s knee again. Aziraphale casts his own gaze instinctively upwards. “I suppose theoretically you’d expect that sort of behaviour from angels, if anyone, but they’re not keen on it either. All that touching is too human, apparently. They frown upon it.”

“How very worthy of them,” sneers Crowley.

“Well, nevertheless – I believe I’ve noticed something about you,” he goes on, remembering the purpose of his conversation. He reaches out to run a hand through Crowley’s hair, burying his fingers in his soft, messy strands and ruffling them further. Crowley _shudders_ , and Aziraphale feels a satisfied smile creep onto his face. “I believe you’ve been quite unjustly starved of physical affection, my dear, because nothing makes you relax quite like being touched.”

Crowley’s face screws up, but his expression seems closer to thoughtful than derisive. To prove his point, Aziraphale slides his hand through his hair, making sure to tug ever so slightly, and Crowley practically melts with the contact. The tension in his shoulders drops for a moment, and he lets out a soft groan as his eyes close.

“You see?” Aziraphale murmurs, leaning into Crowley’s space to lock eyes with him. He offers a teasing, self-satisfied smile, and adds, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say the effect is nothing short of miraculous.”

“Oh, shut up, you.” Crowley rolls his eyes, but an impressed smile flashes across his face. “Look at you. You think you’re so clever, don’t you?”

“I’m merely working from observational evidence.” Aziraphale is aware that he sounds smug even as he says it.

Crowley snorts, then gives him an expectant look. “So what’s your recommendation? What do I need to do? If you’ve figured me out so easily, I mean.”

“I suppose it’s more what _I_ need to do. If you’re willing to let me, of course. I hoped you’d let me play with your hair for a while?” Aziraphale smiles and deliberately allowing his tone to become more jovial, wary of Crowley tensing up further with his request. “Didn’t I try my hardest not to have the rain mess it up only this morning? And now you’ve gone and left it terribly ruffled yourself! Would you let me fix it for you?”

Crowley snorts a laugh, and a waspish smirk spreads across his face. “Yeah? _You_ want to fix _my_ hair? Has it really come to me seeking out your fashion guidance? Has your barber taught you a thing or two, then?”

“Oh, dear boy, some things are just instinctive, don’t you find?” He bites back a chuckle as Crowley scoffs at him, but the demon’s expression soon morphs into something more openly hopeful.

“Would you really do that for me, angel?” he asks, and his voice is barely more than a whisper. “You don’t have to, y’know. Whatever this is, it’s shit, yeah, but it’ll fade eventually. It always does.”

“Yes, certainly, but if I can help it to pass more quickly then I’d be glad to do so,” Aziraphale says without hesitation. “I don’t want you to suffer, Crowley. And you’ve always been so willing to help _me_ when I need it, after all.”

“Well, yeah. ‘Course I have. That’s just what I do.”

A bubble of warmth spreads through Aziraphale’s chest as he realises that the demon is absolutely right. Crowley has helped him so many times through the millennia, in a thousand different ways; he has saved him from being discorporated multiple times, of course, but he has done so much more than that.

He introduced the Arrangement into their relationship, bringing them closer together and freeing up time for both of them to truly enjoy the Earth. He has introduced Aziraphale to fabulous art pieces he may otherwise have missed, and to interesting varieties of wine he thought the angel might enjoy, and has warned him of areas on Earth it would be best to avoid for awhile until various troubles were over, and a million other things beside these.

This, Aziraphale realises suddenly, is what happens when all the authors writing romance put away their pens. This is the happily-ever-after that he never gets to read about. 

An astonished smile spreads across his face as he gazes at Crowley and realises that he does not _need_ to read about it. He has been living it for several thousand years.

He leans into Crowley’s space to pull him into a fervent kiss, one hand cupping his cheek as he swallows Crowley’s surprised gasp. The demon sits stunned for a moment before he returns the gesture with a soft groan, and Aziraphale feels the tense line of his lips soften beneath his mouth. Some of the tension bleeds from his jaw beneath the touch of his hand, and the angel smiles into the embrace.

“It _is_ what you do, and I love you for it, my dear. Won’t you let me do the same for you?” he asks, his voice soft as he nuzzles his nose against Crowley’s.

“There you go again, not playing fair,” Crowley sighs, but Aziraphale sees him wavering as his eyes dart from the doorway beyond Aziraphale back to his eyes. “What do you get out of this?” 

Aziraphale blinks in astonishment. “What? Well, I mean…” His brows draw into a frown as he considers Crowley’s words. His hand traces from Crowley’s cheek, down over his jaw, to rest gently over his throat, feeling the hammering of his pulse, before he smiles gently. “What did _you_ gain by helping me all those times?”

“I got to spend time with you,” Crowley says immediately

Aziraphale draws him into another kiss. “Precisely,” he murmurs against his lips. He pulls away to see them form into an uncertain line. “Truly, all I want to do at the moment is to help you, my dear. I have no ulterior motives. But if you require one,” he says, with a quizzical look at Crowley, “I suppose you could consider that I rather like playing with your hair. I’ve spent so many years wishing I could touch it – you’ve always had lovely hair. Give or take a few decades,” he adds primly.

“Oi!”

“Yes, well, differing tastes aside, your hair is beautiful. I really do appreciate being allowed to touch it,” Aziraphale declares, then softens his voice as he presses a kiss to Crowley’s forehead. “And I adore the way you react, dear boy. You practically melt. You’re very sweet.”

“Give over!” huffs Crowley, pulling away with a roll of his eyes.

“You are! And…and it really does bother me to see you so unkempt, when you’re usually so artfully styled,” Aziraphale teases carefully, and if it feels shameless, he cannot find it in himself to care. Not when he’s sure he has a real chance at helping Crowley to feel better if only he can persuade him to give his permission.

His gambit works; Crowley snorts his amusement, and issues a short nod. “All right. Well, go on, then. If you insist. If seeing me _unkempt_ is such a hardship.”

“Oh, seeing you at all is never anything but glorious, Crowley.” He relishes the warm smile Crowley produces. “Would you turn around again for me, my dear?”

Crowley does so, moving in that same awkward shuffle as before, until his back is facing Aziraphale. The angel watches him critically for a moment, taking in the tension in his restless limbs, then asks, “May I remove your jacket? You’re not cold, you said?”

“I’m perfectly toasty, angel,” Crowley tells him, and shrugs his narrow shoulders. When he speaks, Aziraphale can hear the smirk in his words. “If you want to undress me, who am I to stop you?”

Aziraphale merely smiles to himself as he reaches out to guide the demon’s coat off. He folds it neatly over the edge of the couch, then gently removes his waistcoat, giving in to the desire to see Crowley disrobed. When he’s left in just his shirt, Aziraphale runs both hands over his slim shoulders, finishing with his fingers fanning neatly out over either side of his throat. Finally, he reaches up to carefully take hold of Crowley’s glasses. “These too?” he asks lightly, still wary of pushing his luck.

Crowley nods after a moment. “Go on, then,” he says. “If you must.”

“They’ll get in the way,” Aziraphale claims as he carefully lifts the glasses from his face. He sets them aside atop his abandoned book, and strokes softly over the short hairs at the back of Crowley’s neck. “There, that’s better. Thank you, Crowley.” He takes a deep breath, and debates for a moment, before he decides to take a chance on something else he is sure Crowley will enjoy, and says as lightly as he can, “You’re being very good for me.”

Crowley freezes in place immediately, and Aziraphale does not miss the startled gasp that escapes him.

Silence falls.

Aziraphale does not push. He merely hums softly to himself as he pushes his hands into Crowley’s thick hair, hoping to see the tension drain from his tight posture.

After a moment, though, Crowley clears his throat and says dismissively, “There you go again. You're too easily pleased, angel. All I'm doing is taking advantage of you while you're willing to give me what I want. I'm just trying to keep you sweet.”

“You're doing as I ask,” Aziraphale says with a laugh. He ruffles Crowley's hair with both hands as he speaks, burying them into the strands at the nape of his neck and pushing through his hair to tease a moan from him. “Exactly as I ask, in fact! And you're letting me help you. I'm very proud of you, my dear.”

Crowley produces a strange noise at his words; a wordless, garbled sound of alarm. “You shouldn't be,” he croaks. His hand clings tightly to his own thigh, his nails pressing into the material of his jeans hard enough that Aziraphale is surprised when they don't tear. “I'm a demon, Aziraphale. I'm not...you shouldn't...”

“Praise you?” Aziraphale suggests, when the words seem impossible for Crowley to say, and the demon gasps in return. His head moves to watch the doors leading into the room.

“Is something wrong?”

“Yes. You. Saying things like that,” Crowley forces out, and his voice is as strained as the tension suddenly rocketing through his spine. “Stop it, angel. Don't...don't lie to me.”

“I'm not! Oh, Crowley, I don't mean it as an insult, you know,” Aziraphale says hurriedly, his stomach sinking as he suddenly wonders if he has offended the demon. He redoubles the long, steady strokes through his hair by way of apology as he adds, “It's just that I know you very well by now, my dear, and I happen to have noticed that you enjoy...well. Being praised. It's not a bad thing,” he assures him as Crowley winces.

“I know that. Of course I know! It's just that it's wrong. You're wrong. I don't like it. You should stop it,” Crowley says quickly, and he ducks out from under Aziraphale's hands and shoves himself away along the couch. Aziraphale's hands remain hovering in the air as he stares at Crowley, a chasm opening up in his stomach as anxiety suddenly sweeps through him.

“I'm sorry,” he says helplessly. His hands drop into his lap and begin twisting together nervously. “Crowley, I - I really am sorry. I was so sure - I just wanted to make you feel better.”

“It's fine,” Crowley says quickly, and his eyes dart quickly around the room. “No harm done.”

“I'm sorry,” repeats Aziraphale, misery lying thick on his words. “I just wanted to help,” he whispers, and he hates the way his voice wobbles as he speaks.

Silence drags out between them for a moment. Then Crowley sighs, and his shoulders slump as he drops his head into his hands. “You did. You were,” he mutters from behind his hands. “And here I go, lying to you in return, angel. _I'm_ sorry.”

Aziraphale sniffs, and watches him in confusion. “You're lying?” he asks, when nothing further seems forthcoming. “I...wasn't helping you?”

“No, you were, ‘course you were. Please don't think you weren't,” Crowley says quickly, raising his head to give Aziraphale a beseeching look. He hunches in on himself as his face twists up angrily. “I'm lying about...the other thing.”

“About being praised?” Aziraphale asks in confusion. When Crowley nods sharply, he hesitantly adds, “You mean you really do like it? I was right?”

“Yes, angel, you were right, well done, you saw through me,” Crowley says quickly. “And everything you were saying is very flattering of you, but it’s not something I actually wanted to broadcast.” His fingers are trembling again, and his foot has resumed its restless tapping against the floor.

“Oh. I’m terribly sorry.” He reaches out to take Crowley's trembling hand in his own, and smiles shakily in relief when Crowley immediately twines their fingers together. He gives them a squeeze, then ducks his head to press a kiss to the back of Crowley's hand as an apology. “Then I'll stop, of course I will. I didn't mean to upset you. I just thought...well. It doesn't matter what I thought, I suppose.”

“It does.” He squeezes Aziraphale’s hand tightly in return. “’Course it matters.”

“Well,” Aziraphale says uncertainly, “I thought with you being so wound up, perhaps it might help to relax you if I played with your hair and just…reminded you how wonderful you are.”

Crowley sighs shakily. “How very _you_.” He offers Aziraphale a very brief, tight smile. “It might’ve worked any other day, if that helps you. Just not today.”

“Why not?” He smiles encouragingly, and squeezes Crowley’s hands gently as he gives him an imploring look. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, my dear, but I really do hate to see you so upset. What is it that has you so distressed?”

Crowley hesitates. He squeezes his eyes shut for a long moment. Eventually, he releases a great sigh, and his shoulders slump. “When they took us. Your lot, and my lot. We almost died.”

“Yes, my dear, but we _didn’t_.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Crowley snaps. Aziraphale draws back in surprise, and Crowley untangles their hands to hold his own up tiredly. “Sorry, sorry. It’s just...when it happened, that it happened at all, it wasn’t much of a surprise to me. I’ve been thinking about how Down Below are just looking for an excuse to do me in for a while. It might’ve been preying on my mind for a little bit.”

“A little bit?” Aziraphale echoes. “Well, how long is that?”

“How long have we been friends?” Crowley says with a helpless shrug of his shoulders. Aziraphale’s mouth drops open, and Crowley sighs. “I _know_ , all right? But you said it yourself, repeatedly – my lot would destroy me if they knew about us. And maybe I brushed it off to you, but, y’know…it’s a thought that lingers, it turns out,” he says weakly.

“But it’s over, Crowley,” Aziraphale reminds him softly. He slowly reaches out to take Crowley’s hands in his own again, relieved when the demon shifts closer and twines his fingers with Aziraphale’s. “We won. They can’t hurt you now. They’re too terrified to even come near us, remember?”

“Yeah, I know. I know! I’m being stupid, I _know_.” He shakes his head, and shoots Aziraphale a tired look. “But knowing it and believing it…I keep thinking about everything that happened when I went Up There. I can’t stop replaying everything they said, all their reactions, and wondering…well, what if it was really them that tricked us? What if they saw through us and they’re just waiting for us to fuck up, planning something even worse for us?”

“What could be worse than almost being destroyed by holy water and hellfire?”

Crowley sighs, exhaustion seeming to settle on him like a shroud. “I dunno. But I keep remembering that you…you got discorporated, too. I walked away, I dropped my guard, and then they got you.”

“Crowley, that’s really not how it happened,” Aziraphale protests. He moves closer, and squeezes Crowley’s hands tightly. “It wasn’t your fault, my dear. If anything, I discorporated myself. With a helping hand from Sergeant Shadwell, I’ll allow, but it was hardly an…an execution! It was just a silly accident. I’m fine! Everything is safe, I promise you. We’re quite safe. They can’t touch us.”

“You were discorporated right here in your own shop!” Crowley snaps, and points a shaking hand towards the door leading onto the shop floor. “Right out there, where anyone could see! He wandered right into your own shop through the front door and you were dust! And they managed to grab both of us in the middle of a crowded fucking park! How can you think we’re safe? They could look like anyone! They could be anywhere! How could we fight back against them if they decide to try their luck against us?”

“They can’t touch us,” Aziraphale repeats, keeping his voice low as Crowley’s rises. “My dear, they wouldn’t _dare_ touch us. I promise you. There’s no need to worry.”

Crowley groans, and takes his hands back to drag them raggedly through his hair. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. That’s what I keep telling myself. That we won. We got our way. We tricked them, and they’re going to leave us alone. It’s just…a battle, getting that thought to settle in my thick skull,” he scowls, knocking on his forehead with a knuckle. 

Aziraphale reaches out to gently guide Crowley’s hand down. 

Crowley looks at him for a moment, before laughing tiredly. “You actually said it yourself, earlier. It’s habit, isn’t it? It’s just ingrained by now, I suppose. The need to keep up appearances.”

“Of hating me?” Aziraphale guesses hesitantly, and Crowley scoffs.

“Hardly. I think I would’ve been onto a loser, trying to persuade anyone of _that_. I know I’m not subtle, angel. I always just claimed I was hanging around you to try and tempt you onto our side. That you would’ve been a real asset, if we could’ve got you as a double agent,” he grins, and Aziraphale laughs.

“How very James Bond,” he chuckles.

“You’d be Double-Oh-Heaven, yeah?” Crowley smirks, before his amusement fades, and he shrugs tiredly. “No, I mean, I was always trying to seem more demonic than I really am. Trying to keep the image up, y’know? I couldn’t coast on the whole apple malarkey forever, and it’s not like I ever really looked like I fitted in with the rest of them physically. No bloody animal is going to make itself at home on my head, thank you very much.”

“Except for this one,” Aziraphale points out, tracing a finger delicately over the mark beside Crowley’s ear. It teases a delightful shiver from him.

“Oh, that’s not enough. It’s much too understated for that lot. I’d have to wear a snake for a hat and be covered in scales for it to mean anything to them. So if I couldn’t look the part, I just had to…act it. I had to make sure everyone Down Below thought I was the most demonic demon to ever stalk the Earth.”

“But it hardly matters any more, Crowley,” Aziraphale points out. “It’s just us, now.”

“Yeah, well, habit’s a hard thing to kick, isn’t it?” shrugs Crowley. “I find myself watching my back, y’know? Over the stupidest of things. Yesterday I heard a fly buzzing about and my first thought was to kick over a bin, in case Beelzebub was lurking about and might appreciate seeing me littering. Daft, I know, but I panicked,” he says with a weak smile. “Like I said, every now and then I just…get rattled, and can’t stop myself thinking and panicking and building everything up, like the hordes of Hell are about to descend on me and tear me apart for being, well, _me_. For not being good enough at being bad. So I went to bed, trying to sleep it off, and then…then you woke me up this morning, and it was all still bouncing around in my head, and sometimes I can just ignore it, but…”

“But then an angel asked you to chauffer him to a market and look at cheese with him, which is hardly peak demonic behaviour,” Aziraphale suggests sheepishly.

Crowley issues a sharp nod. “Mm, precisely. Sorry, angel. It’s not that I didn’t want to take you, of course I did, being with you is my favourite thing to do. It’s just…I’ve spent so long trying to spin myself as one thing, and I know now I’m free to be something else, but it’s…” He sighs, and drags a hand through his hair. “It’s hard, sometimes. To remember I don’t have to try and impress anyone. Except you.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says through a rush of fondness. “You don’t need to impress me. You already have.”

“Right. Yeah. Really? Well,” Crowley says, apparently lost for words, before he rallies. “Still. Sometimes I start panicking about…being found out, and not being demonic enough, and my brain sort of runs away with it all, and I start watching out for Hell’s emissaries coming to hunt me down, and I get all…y’know,” he says, waving a hand to encompass his jittering limbs. “Like you saw. And then when I find myself being told I’m, uh, the opposite of that…”

He trails off, and Aziraphale nods as light dawns. “I see. So all through today your brain was trying to tell you to act more demonically, and then I came along and started to tell you how good I think you are -”

“ - And it gets a bit much,” Crowley admits, his voice barely more than a murmur. “As nice as it is of you to, uh, notice what I like, on days like this it all just clatters together and makes a big ol’ mess up here,” he says, tapping fretfully at his forehead.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Aziraphale says softly. He squeezes Crowley’s hands, and impulsively leans in to press a light kiss to his mouth. “I’m sorry for making it worse, and I’m sorry you’ve had to go through six thousand years of this.”

“Nah, ‘s fine,” Crowley says dismissively, but some of the tension has left his body with their closeness. “I know we’re safe. I _know_ it. It’s just hard work getting it to settle in my head. You help,” he adds. “You’re helping.”

“Well, I was,” Aziraphale sighs helplessly. “But now I’ve gone and got you all out of sorts again.”

“What? I’m nothing of the sort. Of the _sorts_. What does that even mean? I’m fine. Look at me, I’m drinking wine in a bookshop with my…with you. There’s plenty of people who would give their first born to be in the kind of sorts I’m in, angel.” He squeezes Aziraphale’s hand and grins at him, and Aziraphale takes in the tightness around his eyes, and the flicker to his smile. “Just… distract me? Please? If you’re still willing?” 

Aziraphale’s heart melts. He kisses Crowley again, a light press of their lips, before tugging hopefully on his hands. Crowley follows his lead as Aziraphale leans back on the couch, spreading himself along it with his back against the arm, and he smiles as Crowley settles on his back between his legs with his head resting on Aziraphale’s chest. His hand rises to Crowley’s hair to stroke through it as his free arm settles naturally across Crowley’s slim waist, anchoring him in place as he wriggles until he is comfortable.

“Their first born? Oh, dear, do you remember when that sort of thing was in vogue?” Aziraphale asks, as he slides his hand beneath Crowley’s shirt and settles his palm over his belly. The other toys with his hair, and Crowley sighs shakily and closes his eyes. “What a terribly awkward time. I had to scale back my blessings for a while, just to stop people trying to hand their children off to me.”

“You too? I thought it was just my lot they tried that with. S’pose it was just a case of too many kids, not enough food to go around. I had to rewrite a few contracts from people seeking power,” Crowley says. “They used to like that, asking for demonic favours and offering their kids in return. What am _I_ going to do with a kid? Can you imagine?”

“Well, yes. Vividly. I don’t have to imagine it,” Aziraphale points out. “I remember it quite well. From what I recall, you mostly thought you’d teach him to be generally evil via nursery rhymes and dark lipstick. And, more specifically, you were determined to teach him not to tug at your skirt with sticky hands.”

Crowley’s face melts into a peevish scowl. “I’d almost forgotten about that! Why are kids always so bloody sticky? You can go at them with a wet wipe every five minutes and they’ll still find something gooey to get all over their hands and start grabbing at you! It’s the quickest way to ruin a good tweed, is that,” Crowley grumbles, shifting petulantly against Aziraphale. “ _And_ my stockings were silk! You can’t just wash silk if chocolate gets all smeared in it! I wasn’t keen on wandering around covered in stains all day just because I couldn’t do miracles in front of the bloody humans!”

“They were good stockings,” Aziraphale sighs. Crowley shifts in his arms, and Aziraphale casts his gaze down to find him smirking. He tugs on his hair to hear him gasp, flustered by his knowing gaze, before he strokes soothingly over his hair in the hopes of settling him again. “Well, they were! They seemed very high quality. I know you, Crowley, I know you’d only wear the highest quality clothing.”

“You’re mooning over the stockings? What about the legs in the stockings?” Crowley asks, with a ridiculous pout. “You don’t have a comment on _their_ quality?”

Aziraphale cannot fight the smile that tugs at his lips, and he reaches for Brother Francis’ accent when he replies. “I’m sure it wouldn’t be right for a lowly gardener to comment on the legs of a fine lady like yourself, now would it?”

Crowley sniffs haughtily. “Spoilsport. I know damn well I have great legs. I bloody should do, anyway. I put enough effort into manifesting them after that whole cursed-to-eat-dust thing.”

“Mmm,” Aziraphale comments, before daring to venture, “I did always wonder why She let you get away with that. I never asked, of course, it was hardly my place to _ask_ , but…I admit it did strike me as odd.”

Crowley shrugs expressively, his eyes glancing upward for a moment, before he makes a face. “Ineffable,” he mutters glumly, his fingers twining restlessly together. “’s bloody well built into us, isn’t it? I’m a cosmic flipping joke. Why’d the Almighty let the snake get legs? To get to the other side. Hah, to get to his _own_ side.”

Aziraphale moves the hand from Crowley’s stomach to rest over his hands, gently but insistently twining his fingers with Crowley’s in the hopes of ceasing their nervous movements. “I suppose there’s no point asking Her,” he says mildly, with another quick glance upwards. “But I thought about it often.”

Crowley’s eyes meet Aziraphale’s, and the angel detects the faintest suggestion of him being impressed. “You were questioning the Almighty?”

“Never out loud, of course,” Aziraphale says quickly, still uncertain after all this time. A fond smile spreads across his lips as he strokes through Crowley’s ruffled hair. “But I picked up the habit of asking questions from somebody I know, and I believe it’s stood me in good stead. Um. Overall. Give or take the almost-being-killed-by-the-Heavenly-Host incident.”

“I don’t think that was Her, though. That was just those dickheads having it in for us. You’d probably know if you were facing _Her_ wrath,” Crowley offers, arching an eyebrow. “She’s never been subtle. You can’t call somebody who flooded a huge chunk of the Earth because they got into a snit _subtle_.”

“I take your point,” Aziraphale says hesitantly, his fingers worrying at Crowley’s hair as he struggles to voice his thoughts. “Still. Perhaps She’s changed? Perhaps She’s less…obvious, nowadays. It’s certainly been awhile since I’ve had any communication with her. Directly, I mean.”

Crowley sighs as he takes in Aziraphale’s worried expression. “If it helps,” he says reluctantly, as though prising the words from deep within himself, “I think that if She was _truly_ angry with us, I wouldn’t have been rewarded for helping to thwart all the world-ending business.”

“Rewarded?” Aziraphale feels his stomach sink as uncertain jealousy swims through him. “You received a reward from Her? I know Adam restored the Bentley, and my shop, of course, but do you mean to say She gave you a reward Herself?”

Crowley does not speak. He merely gives Aziraphale a long, blank stare, as though willing him to grasp something obvious. When Aziraphale merely blinks helplessly in return, Crowley groans, and pointedly waves their clasped hands in the air.

Aziraphale’s brow furrows. Then he gasps in astonishment as the penny drops, and his soul soars. “Crowley!” 

Crowley groans theatrically. “Oh, _don’t_ ,” he whines, and presses a forearm over his eyes. “Angel, just…don’t, please?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale repeats, beaming in delight. He squeezes their joined hands and cups his cheek with the other, curling more tightly around the demon to press a kiss to his hair. “Are you really saying you consider _me_ \- ”

“ – I’m sure I just said don’t. Loud as anything. Don’t, I said!”

“Well. If you insist,” Aziraphale relents in the face of his scowl, but he cannot stop himself from lifting Crowley’s hand to press a kiss to the back of it. He moves closer to murmur against his ear, “You really are such an old softie, my dear. I don’t think I’ll ever hear a sweeter sentiment.” 

He redoubles the slow, gentle movement of his hand through Crowley’s hair, hoping to keep him grounded as he heads into shakier territory. “And what about my own reward? Would my returning the sentiments be too much for you at the moment? Because I’m certain that you’re right. I can think of no better reward for my attempts to protect the Earth than being able to enjoy it with you.”

Crowley remains silent for a long moment. Then he pushes closer to the hand in his hair with a soft sigh. “It’s fine,” he says lightly. “It’s flattering, if you mean it. You don’t have to say it just ‘cause I did.”

“You didn’t actually say it,” Aziraphale laughs, and grins at the resulting affronted huff.

“Whatever. You know what I mean. I just don’t want you to feel obliged.”

“I’ve never felt obliged to do anything for you,” Aziraphale admits. “Not even the holy water. Nothing about you has ever been an obligation. You’ve always been more of an indulgence for myself, I suppose.”

“Oh yeah?” Crowley grins up at him. “A naughty little treat, am I?”

“Like a slice of cake after dinner,” Aziraphale agrees, before smiling and tugging softly on his hair. “Or an entire bag of fudge.”

Crowley’s smile shines fondly back at him. “Yeah, well, hopefully I’m less likely to make you sick,” he chuckles.

The two of them settle into silence again after that. Crowley seems contented to lie where he is, sprawled comfortably across Aziraphale as he plays with his hair, and for his part the angel is happy to see the tension fading slowly from him.

Still, as the minutes threaten to turn into hours, Aziraphale finds the arm of the couch an increasingly pressing presence in his lower back, until the thought of being there a moment longer is impossible to bear. “Crowley,” he says softly, and strokes a finger over the demon’s cheek.

Crowley stirs, after a long moment, though his eyes remain closed. “Mm?”

“I really am sorry to make you move, my dear, but I shudder to think of the state my back will be in if I lie here much longer,” he says apologetically.

Crowley’s face screws up, but eventually he nods against Aziraphale’s chest. “All right,” he mumbles, and levers himself upright with a groan. “I s’pose I should be heading home to bed.”

Aziraphale’s stomach sinks as he looks up at him. Crowley yawns, his eyes screwed shut and his hair sticking up in all directions, despite Aziraphale’s best intentions. He looks beautifully ruffled, with his shirt hanging off one shoulder and displaying his sharp collar bones until he stretches and Aziraphale’s eyes fix on the soft stripe of his stomach that is revealed as his shirt rises up.

The thought of sending him away, of losing his presence, is too much.

“Wait,” Aziraphale blurts as Crowley reaches over him to pick up his clothes. The demon pauses with his fingers curled in his overshirt, and turns his yellow eyes to him in a silent question. Aziraphale is delighted to see the familiar white rim around his eyes has returned. “Why don’t you sleep here?” 

Crowley blinks. “D’you have a bed?” he asks curiously.

“Well, no,” admits Aziraphale, “But I didn’t have a sofa until today, either.”

A smile crooks at Crowley’s mouth. “True enough.” He hesitates, then asks too casually, “Well, if I slept here, what would you be doing? It’d be terribly boring for you to have to tiptoe around me, I’m sure.”

A flush flares in Aziraphale’s cheeks as he looks up at Crowley. “I thought perhaps I’d come to bed with you and read there,” he suggests. “I really can’t see the appeal in sleep, but...people read in bed, don’t they?”

“I’m sure they do,” Crowley chuckles. “That sounds about right. Can’t claim I’ve ever done it myself, but it sounds like a thing.”

“Well, I’m sure I could get comfortable very easily,” Aziraphale goes on, relishing Crowley’s smile. “I usually read at night, anyway, so why not keep you company while I do so?”

“Why not?” Crowley echoes, and his smile broadens before the angel’s eyes.

Aziraphale gets to his feet, scoops up his book, and holds his other hand out to Crowley with a matching smile of his own. “Well then, my dear,” he says warmly, “will you come to bed with me?”

Crowley takes his hand, and together the two of them head towards the staircase.

By the time they reach the top of the stairs, a bed has appeared in the middle of the living space above the shop.

By the time they reach it, the covers have drawn themselves back enticingly.

And by the time Aziraphale gets a few more pages into _The Divine Comedy_ , he has a demon cuddled shamelessly against his thigh, the jittering in his body forgotten as Aziraphale strokes his hair and ushers him peacefully into sleep.

He feels yet another stab of regret at having finished all of the fudge. It really would add an extra layer of sweetness to the moment.

But as he watches over the quietly slumbering Crowley, and gives in to the urge to give his hair another protective stroke, he is certain that there will be even more opportunities for indulgence tomorrow.


End file.
